


why?

by dontknowjack



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Clay | Dream Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Pandora's Vault, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Suicidal Thoughts, no beta we die like men, they're brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:42:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontknowjack/pseuds/dontknowjack
Summary: He picks up the quill, twirls it. Around and around and around.A game. A new one.(He's so bored.)or: dream wonders in prison. alone.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 287





	why?

He picks up the quill, twirls it. Around and around and around.

A game. A new one.

_(He's so bored.)_

Sighs. Stares at the empty journal in front of him, blank, waiting to be filled.

Expectant.

Just like everything was.

 _What will you do with me?_ It jeers.

Slumps onto the ground, book in his hands. Shivers despite the lava surrounding his prison, despite the heat settling into his bones, searingly hot.

It's hard to breathe.

Jagged obsidian digs into his skin. He can't find it in himself to care.

_(He's so tired.)_

It's bad. A bad day. A day? Is it day?

He's been here for so long _(he hasn't)_ , day and night blurring into dark obsidian walls.

The clock barely helps.

He forces himself to move his gaze upwards, latching onto a faintly glowing shroomlight like his life depends on it.

 _Maybe it does,_ he thinks to himself, dully.

Breathes. Tries to breathe. It doesn't matter.

Not anymore.

Here, there is no light, no warmth. No air, no way to breathe, no way to be _free._

No way to run away into the woods went times went rough. No way to breathe in fresh air and have the sunlight caress his skin and for his bare feet to sink into cool grass.

He raises his hands to rub at his face, pushing his mask up slightly.

_(He's sick of it.)_

Fidgets with a corner of the book. Stops himself after a while, Tommy wouldn't be happy if the book was in ruins.

He didn't want Tommy to not be happy.

_(Would Tommy even come back?)_

He hopes he does. Otherwise, the books he's written would all be in vain.

And he _has_ written them — he has! He's done his job!

He hasn't failed.

It's just... this one is giving him trouble. This one, for some reason, resonates a dull ache in his chest, and the question runs around, again and again and again, in his mind.

It's not a game, he decides. Not a fun one, at least.

_Why?_

Why what?

Actually, no: why anything?

Why bother, why mind, why care, _why live-_

He shoves that thought away half-heartedly, and a part of him screams, _Think, think about it, consider it, you_ know _you want to-_

He sighs, picks himself up, body and mind protesting as he did so.

_There is no point._

Something lumps in his throat. He clenches his scraped fist, fingernails digging into his skin.

Better try to sleep.

(He knows he won't be able to.)


End file.
